Produces Monsters
by benthic
Summary: The sleep of reason produces monsters. Mammon is not as opaque as he thinks.


**Disclaimer:** They belong to Amano Akira. You'll be able to tell the difference.

*

These days sleep hits Mammon like a bullet to the brain, like claws of white mist pinching his senses shut until he gives in and goes under. Even if Sleep is, as Virgil once said, the brother of Death, the Sleeping Will is no close cousin of the Dying Will; when this flame consumes him he wants nothing more than to give himself over to the inevitable, make it easy, surrender into quiet nothing. Mammon's never experienced his own Dying Will, but he rather suspects that's not the point of it; he hopes the Vongola main branch isn't wasting resources developing such suicidal tactics. Then again, they've never understood the importance of proper _allocation._

He fights the sleep-urge anyway because it's an Arcobaleno urge, a _baby_ urge, and Mammon's not about to give himself over to _those,_ whatever those other lazy, contented idiots might do. It comes upon him without warning when he's playing with big numbers and big possibilities. He's making them dance and slide into their little boxes and sing their happy little _cha-ching! Yes, sir! What can we do for you, Master?_ when the dollar signs all fuzz up and he has to pause, shake the cobwebs out of his brain. It's around then that Bel, omnipresent in the face of anyone's suffering, usually leans over his shoulder and tells him to get outside and do something less boring if he wants to stay awake. The stupid prince doesn't understand anything; there _is_ nothing less boring than moving money around until it's exactly where one wants it to be.

Mammon calls the affliction fatigue, but Bel calls it _naptime_ because he knows it pisses him off.

"Five more minutes, Bel," Mammon grumbled once and then never again when he realized how childish it sounded.

Another time Bel offers him a bedtime story, in the same way that Bel offers anything—that way that doesn't hear the answer because it can't be as important as the decision of a prince. Mammon growls, turns away, bitches quietly, and then listens despite himself.

He's expecting an obscene story of creative royalty and graphic murder, but to his surprise, Bel slouches across from him, head tilted off in the direction of nothing in particular, and begins a tale of two sisters, one virtuous and fair and the other terribly greedy. The greedy sister's lust for easy gold and abuse of others to get it finally resulted in her being bathed in oil and sprouting a donkey tail from her forehead, as Bel gleefully tells it, throwing a leg noisily on the table and cracking a nasty grin when he recalls the handsome prince rejecting her for her ugly sins and ugly looks.

Mammon shrugs off the transparent attempt to annoy him. No, the stupid prince doesn't understand a thing about him or the real world; that much is plain to see. "Adults," he says, catching himself again before his eyes slide shut, "aren't fooled by fairy tales, Bel."

"Ushishishi! Not asleep yet? Mammon always needs more of everything~ I'll tell you another one, you greedy little dog snot."

He does, this one about a man so full of avarice that he wished for a mill that would grind him endless salt, and Mammon wonders, not for the first time, about the disgusting financial state of any country that had someone as naïve as Bel for a prince. Oh, how a situation like that could be exploited! The assets of a stupid and childish royal family, just waiting to be snapped up by an opportunistic newcomer with a good word in for him and more than half a brain at his disposal! Mammon watches himself being brought before the throne by Bel—_ushishishi, I told you all I was a prince!_—bowing deeply, watching himself in the fat father-king's gullible eyes and flawless crown. A financial advisor, oh yes, our kingdom could certainly use one of those. Someone who knows his way around the books, eh? Tell me, my good man, of the easiest way to grant you access to our accounts. Mammon gestures amiably, expansively, and a solid gold coin slips out of his sleeve and hits the floor with a _clang_ as big as the room. His gesture is as big as the room, because his arms are long, he's tall, he's tall, and his long legs easily close the distance between himself and the throne, they fold gracefully beneath him as he kneels and touches his lips to the jewels that wink at him from the king's fingers. Mammon winks back at them, it's their private joke, and the king is asking him if he'd like to wear some of them for awhile, isn't it strange not to wear any jewelry? _I used to wear a chain around my neck,_ Mammon remembers distantly, but it's in the past, a trifle not worth speaking of. When he stands again he meets the king at eye level because he's tall and there is no top shelf, there is no high countertop, there is no distant heaven he cannot reach now.

He smiles hard and bright like diamonds.

When he wakes up, he's been set on a sofa that reeks of whiskey and covered with an old blanket. He hears voices in the next room. "It's his naptime," Bel says to Levi, and Levi makes a little sound like "Mmmm," a nodding noise, and Bel sniggers and makes a nodding noise back, as if they both understand.


End file.
